Black Talons
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: The article was a sterile rendering of what was nothing less than a bloodbath. Ambushed. I thought immediately of my career in Baltimore, when I’d gone up the stairs with my squadmates from Homicide. SVU AU Sensitive subject matter.


"Black Talons"  
by Cardinal Robbins

Disclaimer:   
John's not mine, but he sure is handsome. Sarah is mine. This one was  
hard to write, for a wide variety of reasons. Yes, this is what a near-death

was like…for me. (I wasn't shot, thank God, but did almost bleed out once.)

She should have known better than to leave me alone in her apartment.

It was a moment of insatiable curiosity, rifling through her desk drawer. Then I found a small, chromed key, a little larger than something to unlock luggage yet smaller than a safety deposit box key. On impulse, I tried it in the lock of her file folder drawer, hearing a quiet click as I turned it to the right. The drawer rolled out half an inch, beckoning me to pull it out and look inside.

She wouldn't be back for at least a couple hours. What could possibly be the harm, as long as I put everything back exactly as she'd left it? Of course it was wrong to unlock a locked drawer, to delve into her past without permission, but I've always been able to justify almost anything.

Hmmmm… What have we here? Cards. A stack of greeting cards secreted in a yellowing file folder. Stranahan's. Hearts from Valentine's Days past, cheerfully encouraging cards from her days at Quantico, get well cards and – wait. This one with the inscription, 'Heard what happened from Steve. Will be on next flight up.'

What the hell happened? It must have been something serious for him to rush to the airport. And he'd heard about whatever it was from Steve…her boss at the Bureau. Funny, she didn't mention anything in her past that would bring Danny Stranahan running to her side. Time for more exploring.

A simple folder, unmarked. More cards; a stack of at least thirty, some with dates inscribed, leading back to a time long before the WTC attacks. The time before me, before us, when she was still pining for the man who never understood her and the raw ambition she so studiously concealed.

I opened the envelope at the front of the folder, carefully pulling out the card. A tigress with cubs, almost hidden in jungle greenery. Tigress. Her nickname. The card was from Steve, written in the scrawl of someone who either didn't write as much as he typed, or who had jotted the note with shaking hands. 'Anyone who takes a Black Talon and survives deserves as much time off as they need. We'll keep your seat warm, but we might steal all your pens.' The guy had a sense of humor, at least. Gallows humor, the glue that's held cops together since…hell, ever since God was a rookie.

So that explains it. The scar beneath her right shoulder, another scar on her back, the way she rubs her collarbone when the weather changes. Entry and exit wounds. She'd caught a Talon and hadn't told me. Jesus… Hit with a 'cop killer' slug, which had ripped through SWAT-level Kevlar without any appreciable difference in speed.

I let out a breath and kept searching; there, behind the third card, a slightly faded newspaper clipping. It was dated August 4th, 1992, from the evening edition of the New York Times:

Daybreak Bust Kills 2 DEA Agents  
Leaves 3 FBI in Critical Condition

Two agents from the Drug Enforcement Agency were killed early this morning in a daylight raid at the home of an alleged crack cocaine dealer. The house in Queens was surrounded by DEA, FBI agents and NYPD, in an effort to execute numerous warrants issued for the apprehension of Miguel 'Toro' Torres and his alleged partner, Luigi 'Lucifer' D'Amato, both persons of interest in the killing of rival drug lord Dominic 'Nicky' Mellini of Brooklyn Heights.

An investigation has begun, in an effort to determine why agents were ambushed despite the secrecy of the planned bust. A strong backup response by the city's SWAT unit did not appreciably reduce the number of killed and injured, as alleged dealers used 9mm 'Black Talon' hollow-point rounds throughout their attack on law enforcement.

Law enforcement agencies have lobbied both the House and the Senate to outlaw the ammunition, which is semi-jacketed in copper with a top section peeling back to form deadly 'talons' to maximize damage to soft tissue. 'Talons' are not stopped by bullet-resistant Kevlar, commonly in vests available to police and Federal agencies. The 'Black Talon' bullets are deadly at both close and medium-range, notoriously causing deep wounds which bleed profusely, often resulting in death.

Despite the early morning firefight, both Torres and D'Amato were apprehended. In addition to initial charges, including Murder in the Second Degree, they also face charges in the deaths of the two DEA agents. Arraignment is pending. Both suspects are being held in Rikers Correctional Center, with arraignment scheduled for early next week.

Among the DEA dead were agent David McNamara, 34, of the Manhattan office and agent Corinne Jackson, 37, of the NYC office. Both had been with the DEA for over ten years.

Critically injured FBI agents include Jason Erdmann, 35, NYC offices; Special Agent Hilton Collins, 43, NYC offices; and Special Agent Sarah Zelman, 31, also from the NYC FBI offices.

The wounded agents were taken to area trauma centers. Services for the DEA agents are pending.

The article was a sterile rendering of what was nothing less than a bloodbath. Ambushed. I thought immediately of my career in Baltimore, when I'd gone up the stairs with my squad-mates from Homicide. When I saw for myself what Teflon rounds could do to Kevlar vests. Black Talons were exponentially more deadly.

I know how the popular press works, how cleanly they report events in which people have bled out mere inches from each other. Why don't they ever tell the whole story? I'd seen plenty of perps and innocent victims, torn apart and left to die, all hit with Talons of various calibers. It wasn't a pleasant way to go out.

I suddenly felt a shiver leave goosebumps on both arms; even with a long-sleeved dress shirt on, I was absolutely chilled. While I was in Baltimore with my Homicide squad-mates, celebrating my birthday that evening at the Waterfront, she had been in some intensive care unit fighting for her life alongside those who hadn't been killed in the gun battle.

It explained why she stretched in the morning, trying to get past the residual pain and stiffness of muscles almost shredded by a slug too dangerous to manufacture anymore. I finally understood why she went almost straight into the shower when she woke up, using hotter water than most people could stand. Sometimes, we'd go to the gym in the basement of the Sixteenth, where she would squint her eyes closed with the ache of raising and lowering weights as she worked out beside me. Now I knew.

After reading about what happened, there was another question on my mind. Less banal than the usual, 'What's the story behind your scar?' I sucked in a breath and felt like there wasn't enough air in the stillness of her guest room. It was time to put everything back exactly as I'd found it, locking the drawer once more and chasing the thoughts from my mind.

Almost dozing on her couch forty-five minutes later, I still couldn't shake it, even with the help of The History Channel's crop-circle conspiracies. The unasked question surfaced once more, searing the back of my brain with the heat of a burning cinder.

A key in the lock – her key.

A couple hours after groceries had been put away and dinner was on the table, I noticed she was pensive, her head lowered in deep thought.

"Sarah?" She looked up at the sound of her name. My throat went almost completely dry.

"Yes, John?" She pushed a few green beans around on her plate, then put her fork down.

"Babe, have you – " No. I didn't want to know. If I asked, the answer could rattle what faith I had, and force me to confront matters better left alone. Better left for dead.

"Have I what?" she asked, wondering.

"Nothing…never mind." Leave it alone, John.

"C'mon, you know the rules. Now you have to ask," she teased.

"Sarah, have you ever…died? You know, had a near-death experience?"

Her beautiful, peaceful expression changed in a nanosecond to what could only be described as ice. Damn it, I'd done it again…crossed the line, into a place where she didn't want anyone else to tread. Seeing her face was answer enough to my question; something in me didn't want to hear the details.

She sighed, took another sip of merlot and leveled her gaze, staring darkly into my eyes. I felt like she looked through me.

"Yes. I've been dead before. Back in the early 90s, a DEA bust went sour." She kept her gaze steady, waiting for me to nod before she continued. "Two DEA agents were shot to death, three agents including myself were also shot – only two of us lived. Perps were using hollow-point destroyers…Black Talons." She hesitated, taking another sip of wine. "They cut through Kevlar so fast, it's like not wearing a vest at all."

"You've actually died, though?" I asked, incredulous. "My God…" I swirled the garnet liquid in my glass and took a sip. "What was it like?" There was no way I could imagine it. A lot of Jews didn't really believe in much of an afterlife, although some did. Here before me sat one who'd visited the 'other side' and returned to tell the tale. The times when I'd been shot, although few and far between, darkness had closed in before I could fight it.

"It was a process, as strange as that sounds," she explained. "Initially, I didn't know I'd been hit, until about fifteen minutes later, when I tasted blood and couldn't breathe." She shrugged, as if it had been another day at the office. "Then I couldn't feel my right hand for some reason, but before anyone could tell me why, I went out."

I heaved a sigh, thinking of her in the midst of ammunition everywhere, and no way to get to safety. "How long were you down, before they could get to you?"

"No idea. When I came to, it was because I was…warm," she said, a slight smile on her face. "Lying on the wet grass, but it wasn't cold at all. A cozy kind of warmth, like favorite pajamas and a blanket. It spread through my body slowly, from the inside out." She took another sip of merlot and toyed with the stem of her glass.

"Had they covered you? Maybe it was an emergency blanket." Wet grass in the morning is cold as hell. She should have felt the chill, the damp. Someone had to have grabbed a blanket and put it over her, when they saw an officer down. Maybe another agent or officer had crawled through it all and did what they could for her.

"They hadn't gotten around to getting a blanket over me yet, because it was total chaos at the scene. I could hear them, but couldn't 'see' what was going on from where I was lying. The smell of blood was everywhere," she said. "And then," she added, hesitantly, "my vantage point changed."

A change in perspective? But she'd said 'vantage point.' "Sarah, I'm not following…"

"Something happened, John. I was looking down on everyone – it happened in a flash. There was no transition," she replied, more than a hint of wonder in her voice. "On the ground, then above it, just that quickly."

I took my glasses off and looked at her, not sure what to think. "Sarah, are you telling me your soul had left? Had your heart stopped?" What she was saying made no sense to me. She must have been in cardiac arrest. Some researchers equate 'white light syndrome' with the imbalance of brain chemicals taking place when the heart stops.

"No, my heart hadn't stopped, not even for a moment. I've read up on near-deaths since then, and your heart doesn't have to stop beating to trigger it." She got very quiet for a moment, probably thinking back as far as she could. "In my case, it was shock from bleeding out."

"You felt warm, you were looking down on everything. Then what happened? Do you remember?" Why was I asking? How come I was making her relive this? Because I'd hoped there would be something to give me faith my father had crossed over into an afterlife. It wasn't simply idle curiosity…I was hoping for a sign, of any kind.

"Oh, yeah. It's not something I'll ever forget. I walked through a star field, John. Jet black, stars all around, above and below," the sound of wonderment in her voice was unmistakable. "I had the sensation of moving upward, at an angle, like some sort of bizarre cosmic escalator. Someone was with me, too."

"Do you know who it was? A relative maybe? Deceased friend?" Is there someone who accompanied souls to Heaven? If so, would that be considered a job or a mitzvah?

"None of the above. It was my guardian angel. He was right beside me; we continued to travel upward." She sounded almost distant, in other circumstances I would have thought she was dissociating. "No one dies alone, John," she said softly. "There's always someone there to guide you." A single tear traced down her left cheek. Again, I asked myself why I was doing this…and I came back to the same answer: My father.

"How far did you go?"

"I wish I could quantify it, but there's no way to determine distance or time. I saw shadows at the top; it was almost easy to see all the people waiting for me. It was quite a crowd, but I'm not sure why." To me, it was clear – those were people she'd helped. To her, it was a mystery; she never thought she'd done enough for the victims, the survivors. And now, she was doing something for me, just as she'd done for all the others.

"Why didn't you simply let go and be with them, Sarah?" I asked, unable to raise my voice above a whisper. She should have stayed. It would have been a peaceful place, the antithesis of all her emotional and physical pain over the years.

"I… I had some things I wanted to accomplish, John. I was finally given a choice – stay, or go back and deal with things as they would be on Earth." She took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh.

"You abandoned the journey to Heaven to come back down to this miserable rock? I still don't completely understand why, when you could have been with your family – your friends." If I'd been given the same opportunity, what would I have done? To be torn between staying and fighting for the sake of mom, or simply drifting toward a Hereafter and looking for my father. A decision I'll never have to make, hopefully, because I have no answer for the question.

"I knew there were things I had to do, people it was necessary for me to meet, karma to complete in more than a few ways. It was important, because my life had – has – an impact on others' lives. Like yours, but I didn't have any idea at the time." She swirled her wine and took another delicate sip, shaking her head. "It was a harder decision than it seemed at the time."

"Back down the escalator and home, then?" What else was left for her at that point? I wondered silently.

"Not quite as cut and dried, unfortunately. I woke up in ICU, with a nurse standing over me, her hand squeezing a third unit of blood into me – the IV line wasn't fast enough, she figured," she said with a wry laugh. "I'd been out from before they got me into the ER, through surgery and recovery, six hours in intensive care – then I came to and the nurses were pretty amazed."

"Why were they so surprised?"

"Because I was supposed to be dead," she said, as her voice broke. "Almost everyone else was… For years, I wondered why I'd been the exception." Her eyes reddened as she tipped her head back and let the tears fall. She still hadn't come to terms with it. "Luckily, George Huang was able to help me get a grip on things."

"Survivor's guilt?" Something else we have in common, I thought ruefully.

"Yeah. By the boatloads." She lowered her head, staring into her wine glass. "I didn't have kids, I didn't have a spouse, a mortgage – all those things luring normal people to stick around. If I'd known what the choice meant, I'd have gladly swapped with one of the DEA agents." She dropped her head into her hands. As her shoulders shook, I knew she was crying again, harder this time. "They both had families, young children… It wasn't fair, John. God was supposed to take me," she choked out, sobbing. "I don't know why I was given a choice."

I got up and moved to the other side of the table, to place my arms around her. She was trembling with rage, grief and remorse, but it wasn't her fault now anymore than it was then. She'd chosen the path she wanted – needed – to walk. As had my father, when he used a gun to say goodbye. Maybe, somehow, he had not been denied the Hereafter as I'd feared.

"How many people have you told about this?" I asked softly.

"You… Stranahan… George Huang," she replied, taking my hands in hers.

"No one else? Why not?" What she'd experienced was more than a message of hope, it was a miracle in its own right.

"Because no one else needs to know," she reasoned.

"Sarah?" I asked, whispering in her ear.

"Yes, John?"

"Considering your life now, are you glad you came back?" My arms were tight around her, strong, protective.

"Yeah. I am."

"Me, too."

# # #


End file.
